


a piece of a sun, burned like a coin in my hand

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: non_mcsmooch, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-19
Updated: 2008-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ropes had cut deeply into Ronon's palms: the strain of holding onto life with both hands enough to make a bloodied mess of his lifelines, and all ten of his square, blunt fingernails were cracked and dark from scrabbling at damp Gayajjan soil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a piece of a sun, burned like a coin in my hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [non_mcsmooch](http://non-mcsmooch.livejournal.com) challenge. With thanks to [Trin](http://trinityofone.livejournal.com) for betaing.

The ropes had cut deeply into Ronon's palms: the strain of holding onto life with both hands enough to make a bloodied mess of his lifelines, and all ten of his square, blunt fingernails were cracked and dark from scrabbling at damp Gayajjan soil. "Just bandage 'em up, they'll be fine," he told Jennifer when she started to swab at them gently; he kept his face impassive even when she cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Fine?" she said, tight-lipped, cupping his big left hand in her small one so that she could see the most worrying laceration: deep enough to need stitches, Jennifer was certain, and he was telling her he was fine, like she hadn't been sitting up all night waiting for him to come back to her, like Sheppard hadn't stumbled through the gate a half hour ago with a palm print on his face, crimson-stark in Ronon's blood. "A little bit deeper and this would be down to the _bone_, Ronon, couple inches lower and you could have cut a tendon, that's not _fine_—"

"Jennifer," he said, voice as soft as if she'd been the one to be cut on, as if she'd been the one to have tumbled and fallen, and she shook her head, refused to meet his eyes.

"I have had enough of this, this stoic _crap_, Ronon Dex," she snapped, fingers fumbling with the heavy buckles of his bracers, trying her best not to hurt him; she'd need them to come off before she began the stitches, using fine black thread to pull back together the palms that had offered her strength and comfort both. She succeeded in undoing the buckles, put the heavy leather beside him on the gurney, and looked up at him with her best glare on her face, the one she'd failed at learning in med school but that she'd had to hone when faced with the hypochondriacal stylings of Dr Rodney McKay. "And you can stop your smiling at me, because I mean it!"

"'m fine," he rumbled. "Just a scrape."

"Uh huh," she said wryly, reaching past him to retrieve and thread a needle. "Want me to stitch this without anaesthetic?"

Ronon shifted his weight from side to side a little. "Could maybe numb it a little," he said eventually, slow and reluctant as pulling teeth—though even there, Jennifer thought grimly, he'd probably refuse even a shot of Novocain.

She moved to stand in front of him, his legs moving automatically to bracket her, and Jennifer was thankful for the first time that the team hadn't made it back until after Lantean midnight, so that the infirmary was near to empty and there was no one here to see them stand so close, to see the way their bodies curved closer to one another for all that he was in pain and she still hadn't forgotten she was angry with him. Supposed to be angry with him. Jennifer swallowed, ducked her head when Ronon brushed a kiss against her temple, his beard tickling her skin.

"You should hold still for this," she told him, trying for levity, trying to ignore the way her voice had turned tremulous, because he'd been through horrors far beyond this, he was still here. "Don't want to hurt you worse!"

"Hey," he said, "_Hey_."

Jennifer's breath caught when he kissed her—stilled by the warmth of his mouth against hers, by the curve of that imperturbable smile, by the way his eyes didn't close because he wanted to keep looking at _her_—and came more quickly when she kissed him back, cradling his two big hands in her smaller ones, her lips pressing affection into the fine skin at the wrists, at the quick, strong pulse beating there still.

When she pulled back, his smile was caught on her lips; and Ronon whispered stories to her, lulling lines of Satedan as neat and rhythmical as her stitches while she worked, making his lifeline whole again.


End file.
